


Лебединое озеро

by liitlechopshopgirl



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Illya Kuryakin - Freeform, Napoleon Solo - Freeform, Peril, The Man From U.N.C.L.E, chop shop girl, cowboy, gaby teller - Freeform, little chop shop girl, red peril, the man from uncle - Freeform, the red peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liitlechopshopgirl/pseuds/liitlechopshopgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby Teller is a prima ballerina, and Illya and Napoleon are assigned to keep her safe from the gang who is attempting to kidnap her for information on her father. Napoleon ends up director and Gaby and Illya are ballet partners. Fluff and sparks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Лебединое озеро

One two three. One two three. One two three.

Gaby twirled to the beat of the Russian waltz that filtered through the record player, the staticky sound infiltrating the otherwise silence of the room, excepting her sharp breaths and the sound of her pattering feet.

Gaby executed a grande jeté, landing lightly and coming to a stand still in first position as the waltz came to a close with a decrescendo. 

Light clapping erupted from the doorway.

"Bravo, Ms. Teller."

Gaby whipped around, her eyes landing on a man with greased hair and a malicious gleam to his noir eyes.

"What do you want Tschekov?" her German accent thickening as her heart began to increase its pace.

She called the notorious criminal by his first name, his infamy having spread to her alert ears from Waverley, as well as from other unidentified sources.

"Oh, my dear Ms. Teller, it is not what I want from you, but from your sweet father."

"I have no father," Gaby replied, tilting her head up in stubborn indignation.

"Oh, but you do, Ms.Teller. And quite a remarkable father at that."

"My father is a dead man, so if you'll excuse me."

Gaby grabbed her bag, and made to shift past him.

Her arm was caught in a tight grip, and it took all she had not to flip the man.

"You will help me contact your father, willingly, or so help me, I will gain the information from that pretty mouth of yours through your screams."

Gaby roughly pulled her arm from his grip, sweeping past him.

She wondered if he could hear the slightly frantic patter of her heart.

She knew she could take him, but all his henchmen and allies?

She would be killed, and she knew it.

\- - -

The men sitting in the audience were perturbing Gaby. 

They watched every move she made. Every leap, every turn, every plié she made, their eyes followed her.

Were these men her kidnappers? Sent to retrieve her for Tschekov?

She didn't know, but they were sending off warning bells in her head.

"Break for water," the director ordered in his choppy accent.

Gaby was relieved. She needed to find out who these strangers were.

She discretely watched them from the corner of her eye as she took sips from her drink.

One, dressed in a full-on suit, looked like a male model, with a chiseled face, bright blue piercing eyes, and dark hair slicked back from his sharply planed face. A small smirk graced his lips. He seemed like a Casanova.

The other was dressed in a simple turtleneck, brown leather jacket, and a newsboy cap of brown tweed. His face was partially obscured, but his hands were massive, and by the way he encompassed the theater seat, she knew he was a giant.

Casanova gave her a wink when he noticed she was glancing their way.

His move gave her the boldness to stomp off the stage, (well, stomp as best she could in pointe shoes) and face them off in the aisle.

"Who are you and why are you here?"

The man in the powder blue suit stood, grabbing her hand and kissing it delicately, looking up at her through dark lashes.

"Hello, Ms. Teller. I'm Napoleon Solo, and can I just say, watching you dance is like a breath of fresh air."

He said this while surveying her body, clad in her tight leotard and tights.

She gave him a dry look, and he had the gall to look surprised at her obvious lack of interest in him.

"And you?" she barked at the man still sitting.

He stood up, towering over her by a good foot.

He was a giant.

"I am-"

"This is Peril," Napoleon interrupted, clapping the man on the shoulder with a condescending smile. "The Red Peril, that is."

Gaby's eyes widened slightly. She'd been told about this man.

"This Russian giant is from the KGB. And I'm from the CIA, sent to keep your body safe," Napoleon added, winking.

"Excuse me?" Gaby placed her tiny fists on her hips, sending them such a glare that the men could feel the frostbite radiating from it.

"We're you're personal bodyguards for the next few weeks, Ms.Teller. To keep you safe from the big bad wolf, Tschekov."

Gaby could feel her frustration build inside her.

"What is a KGB agent and a CIA agent doing being my bodyguard? I don't need protection."

"But you do, Ms. Teller. Tschekov is a dangerous man, with dangerous motives and unlimited connections. You'll be much safer with the two of us-well, me, at least, here."

"This is insane," Gaby said, when, thankfully, the director called her back on stage.

Gaby had a feeling her life was about to get turned upside down and inside out.

\- - -

*3 weeks later*

"No, no, no, Mishka. You're doing it all wrong. This is Swan Lake, not Communism Cantering. It won't please people."

Gaby hid her smile at Napoleon's harmless teasing as Illya shot Napoleon a death glare.

"It. Doesn't. Have. To. Please."

Napoleon tsked and shook his head. "No artistic interpretation," he muttered.

"Break for five."

The surrounding female dancers scurried away from the stage to swamp Napoleon.

After antagonizing Director Shrensck enough, he had quit, leaving the position open for Napoleon to slink his way into.

And Illya had been assigned as Gaby's dancing partner.

The Prince to her Swan.

The stiffness and perfect posture of the Russian indicated his military background, yet his dancing was beautiful. Cold, and silent, yet full of an unrecognizable passion.

Gaby had already discovered the man could only dance under certain conditions, and he, in no way, shape, or form, could dance in a relaxed manner.

Believe her, she had tried.

The show was the next day, and it had come together rather smoothly, despite Napoleon spending more time hitting on the ballerinas than directing them.

The ballerinas weren't just attracted to the suave American though. The dancing Russian with the stomach fluttering looks had them enraptured as well.

Gaby watched as Romana, the only Russian ballerina in their entourage, chatted up Illya in their native tongue.

She was the only ballerina he would speak to that wasn't Gaby.

Gaby surveyed the woman with disinterest. She was tall, blond, and confident, and her dancing had an undertone of sexual energy and passion that Gaby could never imitate. 

Gaby felt like a child just standing next to her. A short and dull German dancer who was more comfortable up to her elbows in grease than in tutus.

"Are you okay, Птичка?"

Illya's voice interrupted Gaby's pitying thoughts.

Gaby felt an odd fuzzy feeling as Illya called her his usual endearment. Птичка. Little bird. "Because you fly across the stage," he had said the first time he had used it.

Gaby shook her head, clearing her thoughts.

"Yes, I'm fine."

But why did Gaby feel like she was choking out a lie?

* * *

"Nervous?" Napoleon asked as he leaned against her chair backstage, as her makeup was being applied.

"No," Gaby replied, though her heart fluttered in her chest and her breathing rate was spiked.

Tonight was the night that Tschekov would attempt to kidnap her, according to the Intel sent to her two bodyguards. And her personal Intel sent by Waverley.

Yet that wasn't what made her breathing labored and her heart race.

It was performing, with Illya.

They had rehearsed of course, almost until Gaby had thought her legs might break from exertion.

But it would be different performing in front of people.

In front of the thousands of people that filled the Russian Ballet Theatre velvet seating.

Why had she agreed to do this again?

"You'll be marvelous, just make sure Peril can keep up with you," joked Napoleon.

His eyes wandered to where ballerinas were changing behind her, caught one's eye, and he gave her a wink, saying to come find him when it was time for the curtain to go up.

Gaby pressed her hands against the glass face of her dressing table, trying to still the shaking of her fingers.

Glancing up in the mirror, she could hardly recognize herself.

She really did look like a swan princess.

She stood, the feathers on her costume brushing delicately against her legs.

Let the show begin

* * *

Thus far, the show had been running smoothly and beautifully.

Napoleon had reappeared at about the third scene, much to the chagrin of the accompanying ballerina.

Now, they were coming up on Illya and Gaby's dance, the main theme.

Gaby's heart was in overdrive, and as she heard the first few notes of the piece play, her body reacted on autopilot.

Stepping out into the glaring spotlights, she began her routine, solo for now, her bourrees accenting the sharp notes of the scene.

She heard the first few notes of Illya's appearance start, and she stood staring straight ahead, facing the audience, waiting for the skimming touch of his hand across her shoulders.

When it came, the flesh of her back grew hot then cold, tingling excitedly.

She leaned back, falling into his embrace, the hard planes of his chest pressing into her back.

Spinning her out from him, she continued on her own.

As she leapt into the air, Illya's strong and capable hands caught her around her waist, dragging her back and around into his embrace.

They stared into each other's eyes for the first time that night. 

His, pure blue, cold as ice, and hers, a warm, hypnotizing brown.

Gaby suddenly realized then that no matter how hard she wanted him, Romana could never have Illya. And Illya would never want her. They were connected, the two of them. Gaby and Illya. Illya and Gaby.

Time seemed to slow to a trickle.

Illya's eyes suddenly flickered right, breaking his concentration.

He swung her around, and threw her out of his arms.

What was he doing? This wasn't in the routine.

He continued to dance out of routine, and while it looked beautiful, Gaby wasn't sure what to do but follow his lead.

Nearing the close of their scene, Gaby made a running leap and jumped into his awaiting arms, and he lifted her high into the air, allowing her to see the entire theater.

And she saw what Illya had seen.

There, in the front box, sat Tschekov. 

And to the side of the stage stood a man with a dart gun aimed at them, trying to get a good shot during all their movement.

At her.

She met Tschekov's eyes with a bold glare.

Illya dropped her from above and she did a barrel roll into his arms, making it seem part of the scene.

They exited the stage gracefully, but as soon as they were across the velvet curtains, the two of them scrambled to find Napoleon.

Gaby couldn't tell if her quickly beating heart was due to the rigor of the dance, the near drugging that had occurred, or the feeling of the tingles racing down her spine that Illya's touch had elicited.

* * * 

*One week Post Performance*

"For a British agent, you sure are tiny," Napoleon mocked, holding the car magazine just out of Gaby's reach.

"Give me back my damn magazine, Solo," she growled out, looking murderous, but then a sudden mischievous smile overtook her face.

From behind Napoleon, Illya grabbed Gaby's magazine, and slapped the back of Napoleon's head with it.

"Pick on someone you're own size, Cowboy."

He handed the magazine to Gaby, watching her as she crinkled her button nose in happiness as she got it back.

The three of them walked back out onto the roof garden, where they had met with Waverley earlier.

As the three sipped their choice beverages in companionable silence, the sense of possibility lingered in the air.

"So gang, where to next?" Napoleon asked, sipping on his scotch.

"You heard Waverley. We have new mission," Illya said, adjusted his sunglasses and taking another swig of his drink.

"Paris it is."


End file.
